


Too Far

by mansikka



Series: Too Far [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Angst, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Self-Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd finally pushed too far.</p><p>There was a stack of crimes under the heading of 'taking Cas for granted' that he'd been playing Buckaroo with for as long as they had known each other. The constant praying for help with hunting whilst Castiel was up in heaven in the midst of civil war like he was somehow their personal Fixer Of All Things. The continual 'baby angel' attitude where if Cas couldn't help, Cas was not needed. The continual barrage of snide comments about him not belonging anywhere and not knowing anything of use, if quotes from Game Of Thrones could be considered useful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Far

He'd finally pushed too far.

There was a stack of crimes under the heading of 'taking Cas for granted' that he'd been playing Buckaroo with for as long as they had known each other. The constant praying for help with hunting whilst Castiel was up in heaven in the midst of civil war like he was somehow their personal Fixer Of All Things. The continual 'baby angel' attitude where if Cas couldn't help, Cas was not needed. The continual barrage of snide comments about him not belonging anywhere and not knowing anything of use, if quotes from Game Of Thrones could be considered useful.

And these were just the crimes filed in the name of The Good Fight.

It was the more personal crimes that triggered the donkey to kick.

The conditional forgiveness where all their mistakes were wiped away and forgotten – until they could be used in the cruelest weapon of harsh words. The denial of an undercurrent of feelings that had been bubbling away for what felt like forever. The unspoken language between them twisted and torqued to suit whatever Dean needed with whatever pain it caused Cas.

The final moments Dean relived behind closed eyes when he pretended to sleep, and with eyes wide open as he stared out across the dashboard. He was an expert in torture, and no one suffered more at his hands, his skills, than himself. He deserved it, for all that he was, and all that he'd done.

The motel room was sharp in his vision. Peeling maroon wallpaper with an eye watering diamond pattern that looked no more comforting by the soft glow of the two bedside lamps. The sound of Sam mumbling under the poor showerhead, cursing as he hit his head repeatedly. Cas standing uncertainly in the middle of the room.

Cas had arrived in answer to Dean's prayers just the day before. He'd looked, Dean could now remember, so very tired. Weary of his own battles, stooped in the fatigue of just too much. But still, he came, just like he always tried to do when Dean needed him.

The hunt had been more than he and Sam could handle, that was true. What was also true was that they could easily have called other hunters in to help. Dean had insisted on calling Cas, for quickness, for ease, for the selfish reason of having Cas with them. It was only selfish because he'd never outright admit that final part to Cas, or to anyone.

Cas had stayed. Dean, whilst secretly pleased, did nothing but prod and poke with sarcasm, but Cas knew him well enough to know what the words were underneath the things he actually said.

Things had been good, as good as they could be on their continual borrowed time. They'd talked late into the evening, the three of them, and Dean felt that sense of full breathing he only seemed to manage to allow himself with Cas around. Sam had turned in for sleep and Cas and Dean had grativated towards one another as they always did; lingering hands, nudged shoulders, a thousand unspoken words in their eyes.

Cas had sat propped up against Dean's headboard as he'd drifted off to sleep, and somewhere in the middle of the night Dean had wound his fingers around Cas' like it was the most natural thing to do. But on waking, he'd shoved Cas' hand away like it was rancid, avoiding the hurt that momentarily flicked across his face as Dean jumped up and out of bed.

The needling had gone on throughout the day. A comment here about only showing up when they asked. A snide mumble there about having better things to do with his time.

No matter how many times Dean replayed the day, he couldn't pinpoint one exact thing that had sent Cas away, since there were so many possibilities. But he'd narrowed it down to two things.

The first were his thoughtless words. In typical kneejerk reaction, Dean had told Cas that he was useless to them when they never knew where he was. What was the point of having a guardian angel when he couldn't be bothered to show up unless the shit was hitting the fan? The hurt in Cas' eyes that time showed Dean his words were beyond their usual level of sarcasm and downright wounding.

The truth was, the words weren't thoughtless at all. Every unkind thing that tumbled out of his mouth came from the fear of Cas leaving, of the weight of Dean's feelings for Cas that he kept suppressed out of sheer determination to deny himself anything good in case he lost it.

The second straw that broke the camel's back was Dean's coldness. Dean and Cas had always stared a little too long, lingered a little too close, if all they had ever meant to each other was being comrades in arms. But that wasn't what they were. There had always been something there, even if it had never been acknowledged. Even when they'd wronged each other, there was always this thing between them, something that meant anything was forgivable, so long as it was done with the right intentions. Because that's what you did with the people you cared about.

Dean knew what buttons to press. He'd purposely stood close to Cas, leaned in far too many times to not send out certain signals, and when Cas had followed his lead, Dean had shoved him bodily away.

It wasn't even like the movements between them were anything bordering on sinful. Cas had looked in need of affection, Dean itched to give it. He'd nudged his way into Cas' personal space, offering up the comfort of his arms in nothing more than a hug. But the moment Cas had leaned in, the door of the bar they stood outside flew open and blasted loud thrashing music into the night. Footfall headed their way, and Dean had placed a hand on Cas' chest, literally shoving him aside as Sam made his way back to the car.

Dean knew the look of disgust and hatred on his face was seen by Cas, but it was aimed at himself. He watched the setting of Cas' jaw, the icing over of his eyes, the confusion there replaced by anger. All Dean could do was scowl back.

Cas had torn his glare away from Dean to look at Sam, nodded, and vanished. No words, no promises of return, nothing.

Dean knew he couldn't blame him.

Which is how they'd found themselves in that motel room with the peeling wallpaper and Cas standing uncertainly, looking at him as he sat on the bed. Dean didn't move, just watched, waited, whilst it seemed numerous emotions ran through Cas like electricity. His fists clenched and unclenched, his teeth worried at his lower lip and his eyes darted away from Dean, unsure of where to focus.

Finally, he raised his arms in a wide-angled shrug, Dean idly wondering if the movement shadowed the arch of Cas' wings.

“I'm leaving.”

For a moment, Dean was silent. To his honest self, he acknowledged the wrench of his stomach. To his dishonest self, the one that always seemed to win, he huffed.

“Don't usually bother to tell me.”

Cas' hands slapped noisily at his sides as his arms fell, defeated. “Dean. I think it prudent that I remain in heaven for the foreseeable future. I do not know when I can return again.”

“Just upping and leaving as usual, huh, Cas? What is it, still can't get your brothers and sisters to play nice?” Dean's voice, deliberately malicious to cover how much he was hurting, flicked over Cas like a whip.

“It is not a kindergarten full of children-”

“Could've fooled me.”

“I am...tired, Dean. There is chaos everywhere-”

“So you've no time for us here in the real world then, right? I get it. Wouldn't be the first time-”

“Even I cannot be everywhere at once, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean agreed, a bitter tone taking full hold of his tongue. “Not much use to us if your head's not in the game anyway.”

Cas opened his mouth to speak but couldn't seem to form any words. Instead, he raised his eyes briefly from the whirls of the carpet to meet Dean's as though he was memorising his face, and vanished once more.

When Sam came out of the shower, Dean was still staring at the space previously occupied by Cas.

Hunting continued as normal, for a time, at least on the surface. Sam knew his brother well enough to know when to push, when to really push, and when to leave well alone. He knew anything mentioning Cas was off-limits, the same way he knew that Dean's current insomnia had arrived with Cas' last departure. He watched the dark circles under Dean's eyes grow more bruised, pursed his lips at the additional fingers of whiskey and the more brutal kills.

Dean grew quieter, surlier. Sharper with witnesses and dismissive of any suggestion to take a break. When things got too hard for them to handle alone, Sam skirted around saying Cas' name, but the suggestion was clear enough. It was only when they had been cornered and Sam had a gash across his chest that didn't seem to stop bleeding that Dean relented, and prayed to Cas.

When an angel they didn't recognise arrived, Sam saw his brother crack. To the outside world Dean was unchanged, but Sam could tell from his stance how much Dean had hoped, prayed, wished for Cas in that moment.

The angel looked at them in disdain, placed two fingers to each of their foreheads, and when they woke, they were sitting slumped in the Impala. Healed, but alone.

When Dean was sure Sam was asleep, he walked away from the Impala, sunk to the ground, and watched the gravel grow blurry in his vision as his eyes welled with tears.

More weeks passed.

Food started tasting of sawdust, and even alcohol lost its appeal. His efforts to eat were perfunctory, and the amount of black coffee he drank added to his continual insomnia with a perpetual flutter in his chest.

They hunted without too much of their own blood spilled for even more weeks, with Dean working on auto-pilot whilst Sam shot worried glances his way.

On one particularly black night whilst Sam put an icepack on Dean's freshly popped dislocated shoulder, Dean's hand reached up to cover Sam's own. With a long pull on the whiskey bottle in his other hand and a defeated fall of his head, he whispered, “I miss him.” Sam had squeezed his fingers lightly, mumbling 'I know', and raised and steered him over to his bed.

After that, Sam had tried discreetly praying to Cas himself. When Dean was in the shower, when he'd gone out for food, in the short gaps they had when they worked separately.

Cas never showed.

Dean got dangerous. Others might say careless, but Sam could tell from the way he charged into situations that Dean was fully aware of what he was doing. Scrapes, breaks, bruises, nothing seemed to phase him now.

On one particular night as he lay prone on his motel bed, whiskey bottle skirting the floor but never out of his reach, Dean heard a voice he'd begun to fear he'd never hear again.

Stumbling to the room's window, he watched. Outside stood Sam, arms wide and gesturing, and Cas, standing slightly stooped, his rumbling voice shooting through Dean like a stab to the gut.

Dean wanted nothing more than to run outside, but something in Cas' tone froze his hand before he could turn the door handle.

Gone was that underlying affection and friendship he'd grown used to hearing there. In its place was a soldier, a warrior, something more powerful and more important than Dean would ever be.

That tiny spark of hope that Dean had carried for so long flickered out. He knew, with complete clarity, that it was he who had turned Cas back to stone.

He shuffled back to his bed, not even bothering to strain an ear to try to hear the conversation. Swallowing back as much of the whiskey as he could without retching, he willed himself to sleep.

Somehow, it worked.

When he woke in the morning, Sam avoided his gaze.

And Dean knew.

He'd finally pushed too far.

  
  



End file.
